Jack Sherman's word today is miasma.
He is thinking of the morningfaint stench of misplaced body fluids
Feet and toenails, armpits, visitors
Lies, protestations, fabrications and confabulations
Fingers flexing, intellects and raw ape.
The sky is so black it throbs
Samson Akibile drives the tractor
The silk-finished beige floor, the semi-naked store.
She realises there are no sanitary towels here
The girls is looking at pictures of Diana.
MI5 MI6 Oxbridge grinfucks out to sanitise
Jack needs another word for tomorrow night
But he must get his three hours in, that's the point of all this.
The morning is delicate, a light lemon-tanged coolness lifting of the river.
He takes the steps down to the river and walks away.
Jack drives the two miles home.
Menses briefly catches his eye, as does meninx and mêlée
The scarred tutsi is already there when Jack arrives
Jack takes a breath and looks up at the hanging darkness
He sees Samson finger the scars on his face
It begins then. They talk little, then some.
They talk of Africa but only in terms of heat and cold, of animals
The night the men came
He begins to talk, softly, flatly
How to kill with a machette
A very black, very tall man with scars
Jack thinks of the river that runs behind the store, along to Samson's apartment.
Jack doesn't trust the sky.
It's not like Jack to forget details.
Jack goes inside, away from the night